


Animagus In One Week (Money-Back Guarantee!)

by Amanuensis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Comedy, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-09
Updated: 2005-10-09
Packaged: 2018-10-26 10:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanuensis/pseuds/Amanuensis
Summary: Smut. Slash. Slavery. Spankings. Silliness.Pairings: Sirius/Remus/Harry, Lucius/Snape, implied Voldemort/multiple





	Animagus In One Week (Money-Back Guarantee!)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Notes: Written for the 2004 Merry Smutmas fest as a gift for Ringspells. Among requested kinks included are non-con/questionable consent and kisses, plus little tastes/implications of bondage, public sex, and breathplay.

 

***

It was Wormtail who succeeded, in the end--succeeded where the rest had, once again, failed him. Strange that that should have given Voldemort surprise, yet it did.

He was not the only one. Malfoy hissed, and Snape's lips pursed so tightly they might have possessed an event horizon. Even Nagini awakened from her usual slumber on the finials of Voldemort's chairback to look, and the remainder pouted or blinked their displeasure as Wormtail made his way to the center of the hall, propelling the boy with shoves to the small of his back, and, though the boy's wrists were bound, stumbling almost as much as his captive stumbled.

Wormtail didn't do Intimidating Henchman well. Wormtail hardly did Snivelling Henchman well, if it came to that--which made his capture of Potter all the more surprising.

"On your knees before the Dark Lord, half-blood," Wormtail barked--from him it was more of a yelp. It was also redundant, as Potter had fallen to his knees after the shove-and-stumble. Unless Wormtail was going for Explanation and not Command. Voldemort doubted Wormtail had planned it to that degree.

However, it was pleasing to hear Wormtail use that particular epithet. Not only would none dare to comment on the Dark Lord's own less-than-pureblooded wizard heritage--none even chose to remember it.

Voldemort gathered in the unraveled edges of his attention, wayward as a wool jumper in a burrow of porcupines, and brought them to bear on his captive, half-kneeling on the floor of his hall. Strange that so many considered this mere boy Voldemort's enemy, and not simply what he was: a nuisance. Hardly more than a child, this youth; not nearly man enough to deserve the name of 'enemy'.

Boy-Who-Lived indeed, emphasis on the boy. Cheek still smooth, limbs still gangly--all right, to be fair, he had caught himself on one knee rather than falling over completely, even without the use of his hands, so one could see that he had something of a man's strength developing. And more coordination than those gangly limbs suggested, as well. Long-limbed, rather. And the set of his boyish shoulders implied a lack of fear, though, wisely, not defiance. And weren't there hints of the man he'd soon be in his jawline? The wild splay of dark hair on his head--shouldn't he be of the age to sport chest hair? Voldemort wondered if it grew as thickly--

Ahem.

At any rate, it was ludicrous that so much emphasis should have been placed on one boy's capture. Not that Voldemort himself wasn't responsible for that emphasis. To have escaped him so many times, even without the assistance of that old fool Dumbledore--it had gone beyond not-to-be-borne all the way to death-would-be-too-kind. Better the boy be captured like this instead of killed outright--made to suffer, made to pay with every inch of his adolescent flesh, lithely-muscled and toothsome as veal--

Damn, he was doing it again.

Well, it was hardly surprising. When one was a dark lord, a certain amount of depravity was expected, even de rigueur. All he needed to remind him of that was that soft clink of chain on stone on either side of his chair as his pets shifted upon the floor. Yes, despite their carefully-cultured control, they'd be beside themselves at Potter's capture--though he knew they'd not dare to show it.

So certain was he of this he kept his gaze on Potter, sparing no glance to his two pets. "Well, boy," he said, cool and smooth as vichyssoise, "are you thinking this is just another in a long list of confrontations? That you shall survive this one as well?" Potter didn't reply, didn't try to rise. Looked appropriately cowed. Voldemort didn't know if he looked quite like a man--like a boy--preparing to die, and that was irksome, but that would change.

And he knew not to carry the thread further. One didn't toy with the rules of Dark Lordhood: it was foolhardy to dwell too long on the inevitability of your victim's death. Suicide to dwell on the impossibility of your own.

A bit of solid menacing, however, was neutral territory on the list of Dark Lord's pastimes, and didn't cross over onto the Dangerous Harbingers table. "I contemplate your ending with fondness, you know." He waited until he saw the boy's Adam's apple bob once as he swallowed, then said, "A subject that brings me warm contentment. Would you care to guess if any of these fantasies involve an ending other than death?" Another pause, to let that sink in, then, "No guesses? They exist, I do concede. You might wish to begin begging for your life, if you wish them to have any priority."

So small, the set of Potter's mouth. Was he about to beg? Too frightened to beg? Certainly not too dignified, no. A boy, that was all; he couldn't have any concept of dignity that needed preserving.

And that was when the voice beside his chair said, "Most noble and generous master...could we do it for him?"

"Yes, Dark Lord, we promise to be as elaborate or desperate as pleases you. Really." That from the other side of his chair, and spoken with a tightness and rapidity that belied all calm.

Voldemort did not smile. It wouldn't do to let them think it would be easy. His gaze slid down, leisurely as a toboggan on too-wet snow, to take in the two of his pets. "Can you."

The werewolf, he thought, was the one who had spoken first. But now their voices overlapped each other as rapidly as cheese slices laid down upon an hors d'oeuvre plate. "Yes, lord--"

"Intensely, lord--"

"Please don't kill him--"

"We'll promise anything--"

"--not that we haven't already promised everything--"

Begging. Sweet as purloined honey to a Dark Lord's decrepit soul. He let them continue, reveling in every please and every philanthropic descriptor (benevolent, merciful, wonderful) they attached to his address, not actually believing it would influence his decision--

\--until one of them--the animagus--said, "...and the ways we'll teach him to please you, lord!"

"You know what they say about young dogs and new tricks--actually they say it about old dogs, but the concept's there for the reading--"

"The three of us together--together with him, with you, won't that be more satisfying than sending him to his death?"

"Elevating him as a martyr."

"Don't you think your throne lacks symmetry in respect to your pets, my lord?"

The question brought him up short. Which was a relief; when he'd admitted to contemplating Potter's end, he hadn't thought he meant he had a fetish for the boy's arse. He seized the segue. "There are two of you, my dearest little upstarts. How much more symmetry do I need?"

"Not symmetry." He knew the werewolf would have thrown the other one a look, had he dared. "More like balance."

"Feng shui."

"Two on either side, and one to grovel at your feet," said the werewolf, the patience in his tone a marvel of you-are-not-helping smoothness. "And that it should be him, lord, doing the grovelling. Harry Potter."

"Reduced to a pet."

"And we'll teach him to please you. Imagine him begging."

Oh, they'd hit that nerve again, as precisely as if they'd been surgeons. Imagining Potter pleading with him, or in the hands of his other pets--pleading for release in all the permutations of that word--there was an image that seized him as decisively as if a hand had reached inside his robes and groped him.

Such a duty one had, keeping up the image of Dark Lord. Decadence was expected, but so was minimization of any potential for humiliation. Especially from one's own minions. Which meant one might command an orgy to be staged for one's pleasure--but one simply didn't fling oneself into the midst of it. Orgy participants had their share of ridiculous moments, whether one was as unlovely as Wormtail or well-formed as Malfoy.

A Dark Lord couldn't afford to have ridiculous moments.

And one had to be damned careful about taking a minion to one's bed. Not only did they carry tales, the familiarity spilled over into public display. Not good. Plus all that awkwardness after one told said minion the passion was gone and the affair over--but one still had to work with them daily. Immolation of exes was a waste of good minions, so, one had to endure. And the exes always acted as if they expected immolation any day. Oh, it just wasn't worth it.

But pets--ah, pets. Pets were the saving grace of one's needs, one's desires, and one's deviant reputation. A naked or near-naked subservient, leashed and crawling--particularly one of the same gender, and particularly one who was once counted an enemy--nothing better to signify one's decadence. Those could be indulged in privately, or forced to perform publicly with each other, giving one all the delicious benefits of the indulgence and the perverted benefits of the display, and no embarrassing moments for a Dark Lord to endure.

And didn't he have a choice pair. Same gender and former enemies--and a set of shapechangers. One might only change form during the full moon, but the pleasures of werewolf sex were incomparable--well worth the scratches, his mild allergy to the fur, and the carnivore breath. The animagus could only change to his dog shape if Voldemort willed it, and that made up for the times between the other's monthly shifts. Especially when Voldemort set him to buggering his companion while in that shape. Prime entertainment for his hall; canine bestiality was so deliciously dirty.

Wasn't that enough for a Dark Lord? Enough for him?

Could a Dark Lord ever have too many pets?

He looked back at Potter. Felt his cock harden that much further.

Question answered.

But he still couldn't make it easy for them. "You believe he can be broken so easily, do you, my sweet ones? I've no wish to waste my time beating the defiance out of him. The two of you have quite spoiled me, you know." It was true. When the werewolf had come to him of his own will, begging his secrets to retrieve the animagus from the dimension beyond the Veil and promising his lifelong service in exchange, it had been too good to refuse--so easy a thing for him to provide in return for his own pet werewolf. And then to use his hold over the werewolf to gain the same promise from the newly-resurrected animagus Black...one didn't get to be Dark Lord without learning to wring every last drop of blood from one's bargains.

"Give us a week, my lord."

"A week. We promise."

"You believe you can have him subservient in a week?" It was pleasant that they believed it, but looking at the small set of Potter's mouth--Potter's quite sweetly pink mouth, as long as he was acknowledging it--Voldemort could not have the same confidence.

"Not only subservient, but eager."

"Skillful."

"A proper little slut."

He thought he heard the smallest choking sound from the werewolf before he said, "Not only obeying your wishes, but anticipating them."

Pygmalion complexes, the both of them. Well, they were desperate; he couldn't blame them. "You promise so much," he said in the lightly chiding tone that meant he was looking for even more abasement.

"My lord--in a week we can teach him to be an animagus."

He hadn't been prepared for that. "Was that--hyperbole?"

"Completely serious, most sublime lord."

"Unexaggerated."

"What we said about symmetry--"

"--the three of us for your pets--"

"If you think," he said, separating each word carefully--more dignified (and effective) than raising one's voice, for a Dark Lord--so that they fell silent, abashed, "that you can use him against me, my precious babes, recall how easily I control you, Black. Animagus form or no." It was true that he had nothing to fear from an animagus. Yet he could not help sensing something ulterior.

The protests were vehement, all nos and nothing of the kinds and one forgive us for causing you any measure of mistrust; punish us as you will that particularly pleased him.

"Only for you to have everything you desire in a pet, most magnificent lord."

What would Potter's animagus form be--canine, vulpine, feline? Something completely unexpected, such as an insect or sea creature? It mattered not; were Potter to take the form of a poisonous creature or even a deadly virus, Voldemort would still be invulnerable to any attack from an animagus.

Which was why he couldn't think what his pets might be playing at.

He looked at Potter, imagining him as a bristly hedgehog. Or a long-tongued hummingbird.

The slight fuzzing of his vision as more blood rushed away from his brain gave him all the answer he needed.

"I suppose--" he had to swallow against a dry throat, but concealed it as a pause--"that it would be a pity not to allow you to try. Very well, the whelp will be at your disposal. For one week. And I shall observe."

"My lord." Sullen-faced Malfoy did not step forward, but drew attention to himself with the deliberate pitch of his voice. Voldemort suspected him of studying more of the secrets of Dark Lordhood than he let on. "Do you think--"

There was an un-Malfoy-like throat-catch on the k, and the smallest of movements, and he stopped.

Voldemort watched the odd picture Malfoy made, and noted Snape standing behind him. Had Snape just...pinched the man?

"Forgive me, my lord. If you intend to allow your unworthy servants the same privilege of observation, we will be told if we've earned such a favor."

Certainly that hadn't been what Malfoy planned to say originally. But whatever protests he'd choked off, his sycophantic substitution was mollifying enough.

Ah, Malfoy. Sometimes his rules about not bedding minions just seemed too cruel.

He allowed himself a smile at the man to appease the rush of wistful lust, and turned his gaze back to Potter, transforming the easy smile to a sneer of adamantine cruelty, like gold turned to lead in some alchemist's experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong. "So your fleshly life may be spared, boy. Though not your familiar one. What say you--will you be a willing pupil in the art of what will please me? Especially at the hands of those who once cherished you in a more...innocent way?"

The boy didn't answer. But he'd grown flushed during the discussion of the disposition of his fate. Flushed, and the small set of his mouth had changed to an open-mouthed oval. It should have been unattractively gaping and fish-lipped, but it wasn't.

Feng shui. Honestly. Whatever those two little fabricators on either side of his chair wanted to call it, the prospect of three pets sounded harmonious indeed.

* * *

"What were you about to do? Ask for the brat yourself?"

"Don't be obtuse."

"There aren't many other angles I can contort into, when you're tied in this position."

"Oh, aren't you the wit. I'll have you know this St. Andrew's cross has been in the family for generations."

"And bears the stain of generations of Malfoy spunk on every inch of wood, no doubt. What an appetizing thought."

"I don't hear you complaining. You've buggered at least two of them."

"Correction. I never had the pleasure with your son. Well, not that pleasure. He has such a clever mouth, we never really got past--"

"The hell you didn't. I know Draco's entire catalogue of expressions, and well-fucked features prominently whenever he appears after one of your visits."

"Think what you like. I'm sure it arouses you."

"Doesn't it madden you, to think I require fantasies to arouse me while you're balls-deep in my arse?"

"Lucius, if you want to be whipped, there are subtler ways of asking."

"As if you'd know anything about subtle. He saw that pinch, you idiot."

"You ought to be grateful. What were you thinking, starting to question him?"

"How could I do otherwise? He's mad, letting the boy live!"

"Lucius--"

"Oh, blessed fuck, don't pull out now--!"

"I am--oof, Merlin, the denial I put myself through for you--coming around to face you for this. Yes, he's mad. We knew this when the Dark Mark was still fresh and bleeding on our skins. He's also mad enough to Crucio your slender arse for suggesting he's made a poor decision. You knew perfectly well you weren't going to change his mind--you just wanted to make sure everyone present will be saying Lucius was right when the whole thing ends in disaster. Your pride will get you killed, dear heart."

"Those two pets of his have far more than keeping the boy alive on their minds. How can he not see it?"

"He does see it. What's madder is that he thinks himself invulnerable to it. Pride's a disease."

"So is his bloody animagus fetish. If they succeed in teaching him that..."

"They won't. I need more oil."

"...Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm coming in again and don't savor friction burns."

"Answer me. Why are you so sure?"

"I'll keep some secrets to myself, thank you very much."

"Such as whether you've buggered my son?"

"If you like, next time I'll let you come watch and find out."

"Merlin, Severus. I do love you."

* * *

Naked, though not yet collared, Potter was delivered to the well-furnished cell that functioned as playroom--and, when Voldemort's pets were neither in use nor on display, their prison.

Black and the werewolf he kept chained to his chair until he judged business for the day to be at an end. (To be honest, he declared three sets of issues to have insufficient detail for him to bother with--just so that he could make an even hastier end to things.)

"I give you a crucial hour before I allow you a week, my dear lambs," he said as he allowed the two to re-enter the playroom's confines, where Potter crouched on the floor, as far away from the door, the pile of pillows, and the magic-shielded cabinet of sextoys as he could manage--a weird sort of triangulation that put him left of the room's center and looking like Adam unexpectedly dropped from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. "One hour before I return to see just what sort of experts in training you shall be. Shed your tears and your protests now, Potter--one hour hence, you'll be denied any such concession. On pain of death, mind. Of course, if you've decided you prefer death, by all means, greet me upon my return with pleas and sobbing--I'm likely to find that sweet enough to grant you a painless death in return." Allowing his glance to linger only a moment longer--indeed, Potter did have that adolescent dusting of dark chest hair, especially around his nipples; he hoped he wouldn't have to execute him after all--he turned and left, locking and spelling the door.

He didn't really think he'd find Potter pleading. And an hour later, he didn't.

But what he did find, he hadn't expected either.

None of the three looked up as Voldemort entered, not even Potter. Who was kneeling on the floor with the other two on either side of him, similarly kneeling, with one of them--Black--kissing Potter with tongue so deep it looked as if Potter were the victim of some gruesome alien symbiote take-over. Behind him, the werewolf had his arms about the boy, kissing and biting the back of his neck in nothing so gentle as a nuzzle.

And Potter's hands were fisted in Black's hair in a manner that was as far from protest as one could imagine.

In an hour?

His pets must have been very persuasive. Or perhaps Black hadn't exaggerated when he'd used the word slut.

Kreacher had never mentioned the boy's relationship with his godfather ran this deep.

Fascinated, Voldemort moved to the divan to recline and watch. Black finally withdrew his tongue from its esophageal probing and let the boy breathe, setting smaller, nipping kisses upon his lower lip--Voldemort noted that it was already puffy; it must have been one hell of an interesting hour--that Potter panted into, hands still tangled in his godfather's hair. At last Black gave him up to the werewolf, who had moved one hand under the boy's chin and was turning him to face him. His kiss didn't seem to involve quite as much tongue but was no less intense, as he covered Potter's lips with his own and closed them down, slowly, clinging like the leaflets of a mollusk that had decided to take up residence for a while. Potter moaned and transferred his hands to the werewolf's shoulders, splay-fingered and clutching.

Pedophiles, the whole lot of that Hogwarts staff. He'd always known Snape wasn't the only one.

The werewolf's hands ran down the sides of Potter's torso, stroking, returning light fingertips back upwards to caress those hair-dusted nipples. Ah, he liked those too. At the boy's moan, he bent his head and began to apply his tongue to one, licking the fawn-colored circle as though trying to lift a cough pastille off Potter's chest. The boy moaned louder, arched his back so that Black, behind him, couldn't possibly resist curving his hands over Potter's shoulders, and didn't. He pressed his face into the small of the boy's back in a slow full-faced kiss that made Potter arch further and his shoulderblades stand out like a fallen angel's severed wing stumps.

It dismayed Voldemort a little, to think that Potter's youth, seated between his other pets, was the perfect offset to their experience. He'd prided himself on having toys that possessed qualities other than virginal greenness--which any ten Dark Lords worth their salt could procure, needing no more effort than would a common street pervert with a handful of peppermints. The werewolf and the animagus had always seemed cleverer, wiser choices than mere quantities of nubile carnality. But now here was Potter, turning it all upside down and leaving such theory helpless to defend itself, like some outraged turtle set upon by spiteful boys.

As the werewolf's hands moved down to Potter's hips, curling about the tops of his buttocks and drawing him in even closer, Voldemort savored his view of the boy's cock, trembling at the top of its arc in a way that suggested it wished to gain even greater heights. The tip was already bedewed with wetness, and already those clear trickles were beginning to break free, seep their way down the underside of the boy's shaft like raindrops searching for a way back to the sea.

Voldemort's own cock was hard as diamond beneath his robes, and more than moist, but he could not bring himself to denude that Potter-sandwich of either of its sides just yet; the scene was far too delicious. Nor would he try to join in; he wanted a trained pet of Potter, and he would have it. Let Black and the werewolf have their week. They were certainly earning it.

It went without saying that he would not be reduced to self-pleasuring in front of his pets. One didn't become a Dark Lord without at least that measure of control.

So, hands quite easily resting not upon his own groin, he watched as the werewolf brought Potter's cock closer and closer to his own, until the shafts just brushed and Potter sucked in a breath. At that point, the werewolf hooked his hands under Potter's thighs and pulled the boy forward onto his lap, thighs open and draped over his, the pouch of his balls settling and plumping against the werewolf's own like a fig ready to burst. Both cocks were thrust into the air, crossed against each other lightly like rapiers paused in their duel.

Potter cried out, trying to spread his legs even further and press harder against the man's groin. Behind him, Black slid his hands about to cup the boy's pectorals, his mouth moving to where he could catch Potter's earlobe in his teeth and murmur, "No...not yet." Those hands pulled Potter backward, unbalanced him like a newborn foal and left him with no other support but the animagus's chest, angled helplessly off-kilter and making the greedy stance of Potter's cock even more prominent, as it rose mid-point between them like some neutral territory flag mocking an otherwise razed landscape.

Black bent his head over Potter's and kissed the boy again, upside-down, giving both of them the opportunity to suck rapaciously at the other's lower lip at the same time. The werewolf was moving his hands under the swell of Potter's buttocks, squeezing, parting them, hands shifting so that Voldemort knew his fingers were questing along the spreading cleft between. Potter's cock gave another jump, as if spring-loaded, and he babbled something unintelligible but no doubt obscene into Black's mouth. Black's answering chuckle was unobscured, for all that he did not release Potter's mouth for it.

Potter's hands were scrabbling at his sides, clutching at random pillows beneath and alongside him as if searching for the one he suspected contained a time bomb. Black sought those hands with his, and did not break the kiss until he had them. Drawing Potter's arms above his head with a quick pull, Black chuckled again as the werewolf, unable to resist the helpless playing field of Potter's torso, laid his fingertips at the boy's throat and drew them down lightly, questing into his exposed armpits and along his belly so that Potter twitched and gasped, unsuccessfully pulling at his trapped wrists. His cock drooled ever more wetness down its crimson shaft, responding to the stimulus that hadn't even come anywhere near it, like a weather change to the flap of a far-off butterfly's wings.

At last the werewolf's hands made their way to the boy's legs again, this time to his ankles, seizing them and pushing back so firmly that the boy's heels pressed into his buttocks, knees doubled and wide-spread. Voldemort could see the splay of Potter's arsecleft now, puckered flesh wantonly kissing the air. The werewolf shifted his hips where he knelt, allowing the tip of his own leaking cock to graze that pulsing little heart, teasing it as it tried to open for him of its own will like some flower awakening to sunlight.

But the werewolf pulled away, and said, "Hands and knees, Harry." On cue, Black released the boy's wrists, and to his credit, Potter only wasted a moment processing the command before he scrambled to obey. And it was a scramble. Voldemort allowed a hint of satisfaction to show about his lips; his pets certainly were not disappointing him.

"Arse high." This from Black to Potter, who responded by pushing his arse up and sinking his face down to the backs of his hands. Black gave Potter's arse a healthy smack with one hand, which got a stuttered sound out of the boy--but didn't make him change position. "Good," said Black, and smacked him again, three times, four. Hard enough to leave red handprints in their wake.

Potter moaned--and then said, "More. I can take it."

Even as Voldemort had to suppress the urge to press his cock against the divan's surface a little harder, the werewolf had seized a handful of the boy's hair--but to get his attention, not to draw his head up. "It's your duty to take it. Never use that phrase with your master." He released Potter's hair just as quickly. "Better not spare him, Padfoot."

The animagus's lips twisted into something that could not quite be called a grin. He looked over at Voldemort--the first time any of them had done so since his entrance. "Most dread lord. If I may be allowed the use of one of the paddles?"

Voldemort did grin, and gestured in the direction of the warded cabinet. Black crossed to it--on hands and knees, of course; Voldemort had not given him permission to rise in his presence--and took what the cabinet allowed him: a leather affair with tiny metal teeth over its surface. As Black crossed back, Voldemort was sure he heard Potter's breathing becoming even louder.

Potter's nervy attempt to take every bit of punishment without protest made Voldemort's blood sing. The boy kept his position, fists balling, toes curling as the spanking went on, and on, until Potter's arse was scarlet flecked with spots of deeper scarlet, and he was shouting his misery into the backs of his hands, feet not merely curled but drumming against the floor in his effort not to move away. Voldemort made no attempt to call a halt; indeed, Black stopped long before the whelp's limits had been exceeded, in his opinion.

But the animagus finally set the paddle down, pressed his lips and tongue to Potter's rump as he licked away what he could of the burn, and then parted the boy's buttocks again and licked a wet trail along that tender cleft from balls to tailbone, as carefully as if he were painting the equator along a globe.

Potter's head came up with a shout, just as Black extended his tongue again and pressed it directly into the crinkled opening of his anus, beginning to tongue-fuck that sweetly pulsing muscle which gripped back as desperately as a Christmastime shopper fighting for the last Furby in the county. Voldemort knew the depths that tongue could achieve. Potter would be coming in seconds.

The werewolf would not be denied his participation in Potter's orgasm, however, and, lifting the boy's shoulders, slid beneath him to bring his mouth to Potter's jutting cock. Not to suck, but to extend his own tongue and scoop up the end of the sticky organ on the flat of it, holding it there ever so teasingly as Potter groaned and keened and yes, pleaded. By the power of Black's tongue in his arse alone, Potter shook like a seizure and came, erupting onto the werewolf's ready tongue, which held him there as contentedly as a niffler gorged on doxy eggs, until the erection at last began to wilt. Then the tongue went into action, licking and caressing the too-sensitive organ until Potter sobbed his surrender, and tried to push the two men away from him without success, writhing on the pillows like a still-living insect with a pin through its vitals.

They hadn't even fucked the boy yet, or forced Potter to attend to either of them, yet Voldemort could wait no longer. "Black," he said, annoyed that it came out hoarser than he intended. "Accompany me to my chambers."

Black left Potter's side at once, bent his head as he waited by the divan so that Voldemort might affix the leash to his collar if he desired. Voldemort wasn't sure he could wait that long.

"Wolf. You may stay here with him. Tomorrow morning I expect to see him bearing fresh marks from that paddle."

"Yes, lord."

To Potter he said nothing. Potter had been given his instructions; he would not repeat them. Nor would he praise the brat; hardly.

Though as he and the animagus made their way to his quarters, he found himself resisting the urge to caper.

* * *

"Look, it happens to all of us sometime."

"It doesn't happen to me, you arse."

"Obviously it does. Unless you're going to tell me you're polyjuiced and are someone else presently failing to achieve an erection."

"May your bollocks be caught in a Chinese fingertrap, Severus."

"Not as if you haven't tried. Do stop fretting. You were moody before we even came here; what's bothering you?"

"...It's Wednesday."

"You're usually eager as a house-elf with a load of washing-up on Wednesdays, Lucius."

"Yes, well, this is hardly a usual Wednesday, is it?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning our afternoon's entertainment is usually preceded by another form of entertainment, if memory hasn't failed you."

"Ah. Lupin and the cur."

"I look forward to Wednesdays, damn it all. That Voldemort should have pre-empted their Wednesday performance because they're training that brat...!"

"Are you saying that you require the public ruttings of those two before you can spring wood? Because I don't believe it."

"Don't speak rubbish. It is simply the principle which has me furious."

"You're just going to have to sublimate your fury. Or orgasm won't be on your day's schedule either."

"As if I'm not trying."

"Not trying hard enough. Think of what they're doing to the boy."

"Hmmpf."

"Training him to suck cock...on his knees..."

"Not helping."

"Staying on his knees while one of them ejaculates into his eyes..."

"Mn."

"Spreading his arse with his own hands while one of them prepares to stuff the entire uncut thickness of his prick inside..."

"...Better."

"Making him beg, 'Yes, I'm a worthless boycunt who lives to be fucked up the arse...'"

"Or in the mouth, until he's taking it down his throat and can't even breathe and his vision goes black and sparkles as he chokes, wondering if they'll come before he dies, and one of them playing with his prick at the same time so that he comes just before they finally let him have his breath back..."

"Now you've got it."

"Why, so I have. You wouldn't like to lick this a bit, just to make sure it decides to stay around?"

"As if you had any doubts."

"Thank you, Severus. Much more entertaining than envisioning them engaged in pointless animagus lessons."

"Mnf. Pointless indeed."

"...You keep saying that like you know something."

"Do you want me to talk, or do you want me to lick?"

"As if you had any doubts. Oh, lovely, yes, right like that."

* * *

It was the blurriest week Voldemort had ever experienced.

He couldn't be with the three of them all the time--a Dark Lord had responsibilities--but every moment he could spare to observe Potter's progress left him vertiginous as a Muggle on a broomflight. It got so he didn't even want to make use of all that clever training Black and the werewolf had had--cock into mouth, or into arse, and that was about all Voldemort was good for, after observing one of those sessions.

And wasn't Potter the promising little pet.

By the second day Voldemort knew he hadn't a fantasy that would go unfulfilled. Potter took to obedient cock-sucking like there was a World Cup riding on the outcome, and his arse proved so easy to break in, that, by the end of the week, all one would need was a bit of humidity in the air to slide inside him to the hilt, slick and effortless as a spoon into jam.

Even that couldn't compare to hearing the boy speak. The subservient filth the boy let spill from his mouth without even a moment's prompting--Voldemort had once heard a diatribe of his that began with Please, master, and finished with until my entire body is one pornographic folio of lash marks, oozing not blood but spunk from all that you've deposited inside me and every last trickle of it spelling Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort--and nearly declared the week over right then, weak-kneed and on the verge of shoving his cock inside that splendid mouth to try its other skills.

One thing held him back.

"You've...decided not to bother with the animagus teachings, then?" he said to the werewolf a half-hour later, as he recovered from his hasty and violent orgasm between the wolf's thighs (not having been able to wait to even penetrate him, this time). In all the moments he'd spent in the boy's presence, nothing so mundane and non-sexual had been in progress.

"Oh, no, my lord. I mean, yes, lord, he's making good headway."

"Is he." Voldemort wanted to ask when in Merlin's name they'd found the time, but was too muzzy-headed to pursue it.

And at last the week was over.

He had no intention of making it easy for Potter; not after all that. Before his entire gathering of Death Eaters--they really had been patient, missing out on so much of the usual displays of his pets--he first led Black and the werewolf into the hall, and then Potter crawled forward of his own volition, collared and head bowed.

"Well, my pet." He curled his fingers over the arms of his chair, giddy as a boy on glue-fumes after assembling model brooms. "Tell me--and all who can hear you--whom you belong to. Whom you live to serve."

Raising his head just enough to allow him to do the perfect look-up-from-beneath-his-lashes glance, Potter said, "You, my dearest Lord Voldemort. Voldemort, whom I am rapturous to serve with my flesh and my obedience..."

And he did go on. And on and on, until Voldemort decided fuck it, just once, he was going to indulge himself with his pet in front of everyone who cared to watch, and bedamned to the rules of Dark Lordhood.

"...and whom I would like to delight with an additional skill that he has not yet witnessed, much less tasted. My animagus form, if you will let me show you, most divine Lord Voldemort."

Voldemort felt his mouth open--only slightly; it would be observed as delight, not surprise, fortunately. Had the boy--had his pets--done it?

"Show me, then." he said, gesturing to allow the change.

Potter did not get to his feet, of course, but his upper body rose slightly--and suddenly he was thinning, arms at his sides, blending with his sides, legs fusing together and curling until--until what lay on the floor before Voldemort was a coiled cobra.

Voldemort felt his eyes widen in eagerness. A snake! Oh, didn't he have a thousand and one perverted fetishes he might share with a snake animagus. The prospects were--

Movement from above his chair. Nagini, curled in her usual position about the top of the chairback, had slithered down to the floor so quickly he hadn't even time to say her name.

The female cobra was facing the snake, hisses of speech coming so rapidly Voldemort hadn't time to translate--and then she wasn't facing him at all, she had entwined herself with Potter's animagus form, so closely that a casual observer would think there was but one snake there. And it seemed to him that one snake darted forward, back to the chair, to him--

I cannot be harmed by an animagus, Voldemort thought without concern, even as he willed Potter back into his human form.

And Potter did resume human form, still on the floor before him--as the second snake still dove at his throat, fangs bared.

Nagini, you treacherous bitch, was his last thought on this earth.

* * *

"You said he'd never become an animagus," Lucius accused.

"On the contrary." Snape examined his nails, for all the world as if Potter were not pushing the corpse of Voldemort off of his throne and fondly stroking the cobra coiled about his shoulders. "Your memory's as faulty as a Pensieve with a crack, Lucius. What I said was, Black and Lupin would never succeed in teaching him to be an animagus. The boy's been a snake animagus for two years."

"And you didn't bother telling anyone?!"

"Oh, come. You know perfectly well Voldemort was headed for defeat. Far better to play both sides. Don't worry, Lucius, I'm sure another plea of Imperius influence and a hefty bribe to the Ministry will get you off yet again."

"Always the man with the answers, aren't you, Snivellus?" Sirius was standing upright for the first time in many months, wincing as he did. "Fuck, these fucking calluses on my knees are never going to fade. Harry, get down from there," he added, as Harry leaned back on the throne, crossing his legs at the knee.

"But I sort of like the view," said Harry, looking about, eyes unnaturally bright.

"Harry, don't even think it," Remus said. "Dark Lordhood can only lead to a bad end."

"Allow me." Snape stepped forward. "Potter, get down off that chair this minute or there will be no sex with either your godfather or Lupin again. A Dark Lord can't assimilate his former rival's pets; it's not done."

Harry pouted. Lucius sotto voce'd at Snape, "It does not the hell say that."

Equally quietly, Snape muttered, "We have to get to him before he reads the handbook, dolt."

"Oh, well, in that case." Nimble as a...very nimble thing, Harry descended from the chair. "But Nagini's insisting on being included in the sex, Sirius, Remus. I did promise her she'd be my consort, after all."

"Ew, het," Lucius grimaced.

"Hedwig's going to be awfully jealous," Harry added thoughtfully.

***

-fin


End file.
